


Slippery When Wet

by LiraelClayr007



Series: You Send Me Flying [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: (just a little), Bathtub Sex, Biting, Fluff, M/M, Mostly Silliness, Water Fight, Wing Grooming, Wing Kink, they're just really sweet on each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:13:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27512875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiraelClayr007/pseuds/LiraelClayr007
Summary: “Clint. You’ve been holding out on me.”Clint’s laugh is muffled; he’s sprawled across the bed on his stomach, wings spread over him like a blanket, his face buried in a pillow.“You’ve been letting me use that tiny little shower while you’ve been in here...luxuriating?”Or...the bit where Bucky discovers the giant tub in the master bathroom, and shenanigans ensue. 😜
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: You Send Me Flying [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2010751
Comments: 15
Kudos: 56
Collections: Clintucky Fried Bunnies





	Slippery When Wet

**Author's Note:**

> For [Pherryt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pherryt/pseuds/pherryt), because all the bathtub fics are for her, and because she's the best beta ever. 💜
> 
> Hi!!
> 
> This is the bonus scene to Waking Up that I've been promising for *mumble mumble* months now! Hopefully it's worth it. Oh, and if you _haven't_ read Waking Up, this reads fine all on its own...although knowing the whole story makes it a bit more fun. 😉
> 
> Love, Lira 🏹
> 
> p.s. This takes place sometime after the first time...😮

“Fuck, Clint. You’ve been holding out on me.”

Clint’s laugh is muffled; he’s sprawled across the bed on his stomach, wings spread over him like a blanket, his face buried in a pillow.

“You’ve been letting me use that tiny little shower while you’ve been in here...luxuriating?”

Bucky doesn’t turn around, but he hears Clint pulling himself off the bed and stumbling in his direction. Soon he’s got arms and wings and chin and _Clint_ draped all over him.

“A boy’s gotta have _some_ secrets,” Clint says into his ear, sultry and low. They’d barely just finished what was possibly the best sex of Bucky’s very long life, and still that voice, those words, light a fire inside him.

Bucky makes a groaning noise–he can’t help it–and Clint laughs.

“It’s just a bathtub,” Clint says.

“That’s not what–” Bucky starts, then changes his direction. “That is _not_ just a bathtub, darlin’. That is practically a replica of the clawfoot tub I had in my apartment when I was growin’ up. It’s _gorgeous_. Only it’s about half again as big, I never knew they made them so...it’s just _huge_.” He’s all the way in the bathroom now, running a hand along the smooth, cool rim of the tub.

Clint makes a noncommittal, dismissive noise behind him. “You see how tall I am. My dad was a big guy, I guess. And he liked to soak in the tub.” Bucky turns in time to see the darkness drop onto Clint’s features, then slide away again. He grins at Bucky. “And now it’s mine, and I think it just might be big enough for a tall guy, his boyfriend, _and_ his newly acquired wings. Think we should try it out?”

Before Clint’s done talking Bucky’s got him against the suddenly closed door; his wings give a muffled whoomp when they hit the door but if it hurts Clint at all he doesn’t seem to mind. Their kisses are rough but their hands are gentle, learning every inch of each other. Clint is a map of past injuries, with scars overlapping scars. Not for the first time Bucky wonders how the man is still alive. “Touched by the gods, you are,” he murmurs between kisses. “Half god yourself, if the wings are any indication.”

Clint’s eyes are drunk with kisses and his voice is full of lust when he says, “I’m no god, but I’ve been touched by _you_ , and that’s good enough for me.”

They stand there for a minute, two, an eternity. Then Clint leans down and kisses Bucky sweetly, something in the kiss promising so much more than a quick fuck. Bucky’s stomach flips; they’ve already talked about this, about the possibilities of the future, but something about the kiss, the “we’ve got time” feel to it, settles him in a way he hasn’t felt in a very long time.

“Should we get that bath goin’?” Bucky asks, his voice rough from the thoughts tumbling around in his head. Clint smiles and drops another kiss on his cheek before he slips out from between Bucky and the door and turns to the tub to start the water.

Bucky, still somewhat dazed, just leans against the door and enjoys the view. The hawklike feathers–somehow perfectly edged in purple–nearly brushing the floor, and the hint of naked Clint hiding behind them. He’ll never tire of the sight. He’ll never understand how this happened, either, how the object of his hopeless crush sprouted wings and then–even more miraculously–sprouted feelings. For him.

“Do you want bubbles?” Clint asks, snapping Bucky from his thoughts.

“Bubbles?” All he can think of is champagne, but then he sees Clint kneeling beside the tub and remembers what they’re doing. “Oh. Actually…” He doesn’t finish the thought, just darts to his bedroom, grabs the small bag from Wanda, and is back in the bathroom while Clint is still asking where he’s going. He pulls a small glass vial from the bag and winks. “Bath oils, from Wanda. I wasn’t sure I’d actually be sharing them with you, not out here in Iowa at least. But now that there’s a nice big tub…”

Clint raises his eyebrows suggestively. “Yes please,” he says, reaching for the vial. Bucky snatches it back, out of Clint’s grasping hand.

“It’s not like bubble bath,” Bucky chides. “You don’t put it in while the water’s runnin’.” He shakes his head. “What are you, some kind of heathen?”

That startles a laugh out of Clint. “It’s just a bath, baby. Sorry I’m not so up on my bathtime etiquette as you.” His eyes crinkle with mirth. “And didn’t you just call me half god? Am I a god or a heathen? Make up your mind...” 

Make up his mind? Bucky’s pretty much out of his mind, it’s hard to think with Clint winking and grinning at him like that.

“Water okay?” Clint asks, and Bucky has to drag himself to the present again, to what’s actually happening.

“Water?”

“The temperature. Or doesn’t it matter to a supersoldier who puts off enough heat to melt a blizzard?”

Bucky bristles, just a little, at this. “I’m not _that_ hot,” he says, and he hears himself just as Clint laughs and says, “Oh yes you are, baby.”

Bucky groans. “Okay, but I’m really–”

“Buck, I just spent an hour or so sleeping next to you.”

“On top of me,” Bucky corrects.

“Whatever,” Clint says. “Trust me, it’s like sleeping with a bed of coals. Come winter we’re gonna have to sleep with the window open.”

Ignoring his obviously exaggerating boyfriend, Bucky sticks his hand into the water. “Feels nice,” he says, then flicks a handful of water at Clint.

It’s a good thing they started with their clothes off, because soon they’re both splashing and throwing water at each other, shrieking and laughing–they’re not even in the tub yet but they’re both dripping wet. Bucky’s reminded of splashing in fire hydrants as a kid; the pure joy of the thing, just living in the moment and not worrying about tomorrow or next week or next year. It’s a surprising feeling to find here, amid such change, and he doesn’t know if it’s being out here away from everything or if it’s just the magic of Clint Barton. Maybe it’s both.

And then he gets a good look at Clint’s face, and even through the sprays of water he knows it’s not just Clint, not just the place. He’s part of it too. Bucky’s never seen Clint look so carefree. Something about the two of them together just...works.

“Truce!” he calls, laughing, holding up his hands. Clint takes the opportunity to splash him one more time, square in the face, and then agrees. “Alright, truce.” They look at each other, each dripping water all over the tile floor and the plush bath mat, and they just grin, completely lost in the moment.

Clint breaks eye contact first, looking around with a somewhat confused look. “What happened to that bath oil?”

“It was in my hand when we started, and I was near the tub. Maybe it rolled underneath?” Clint, already standing next to the tub, gets on his hands and knees and looks underneath it, arm reaching towards the wall, bare butt sticking up in the middle of the room. Bucky leans against the bathroom counter, watching.

“You sure, Buck? I don’t see it anywhere.”

Bucky tilts his head, enjoying his view of Clint. “You’d better really look, darlin’. I’m lookin’ out here.”

Clint slides toward the other end of the tub, stretching his arms out, butt wiggling. “I don’t think it’s down here. You’d better look harder out there.”

“Oh, I’m lookin’ mighty hard,” Bucky says, struggling to hold in his laughter.

After another minute or so Clint gives up and wriggles himself out from under the tub. When he turns around and sees Bucky leaning there, doing nothing but looking at him, he scowls. “What, you planning to make me do all the work, then?”

“Nah,” Bucky says, holding up the little vial of bath oils. “This was on the counter the whole time. But the view was so nice…” He shrugs, grinning.

Several expressions pass over Clint’s face in the moment: irritation, admiration, frustration. But he lands on pure pride and swagger. “Like what you see then?” he asks, all flirtation, actually swaying his hips as he saunters towards Bucky. Bucky tries to answer but nothing seems to work; words fall from his mind like water through his fingers. Clint pushes into Bucky’s space, wings spread out behind him, forcing Bucky to lean back and to look up into Clint’s mesmerizing eyes. Bucky can’t smile, can’t think, can’t even breathe. He feels Clint’s fingers on his wrist, on his hand, and then the little bottle he’d been holding is gone, disappeared into the long, calloused fingers of his lover. “Thanks,” Clint says, all low and sultry. Bucky can feel Clint’s breath on his cheek.

And just like that Clint turns around and is standing by the tub again, and in his normal voice says, “How much of this do I use then?”

Bucky can’t answer right away, he has to figure out how to breathe first. And then speak. In the end he decides he doesn’t trust his mouth anyway and just takes the bottle from Clint’s hand and pours in the right amount, leaning over to spread the oils around by swishing the water with his hand. Clint makes a noise that goes to Bucky’s already hardening dick. “You’re right,” he says. “I approve of all this bending over, it makes for nice views.” Bucky glances over his shoulder to see that now Clint’s the one leaning against the counter.

“And you were right, Barton,” Bucky says dryly, slipping easily into the just right water of the tub. At Clint’s confused look Bucky winks. “You really are a menace.”

Grinning, Clint agrees. “I told you. But you seem to like that about me, so don’t expect it to change much.” He looks down at Bucky, completely at ease against one end of the tub. “How do you want me?”

“Oh, every way possible,” Bucky says. And huh, he’d had no idea a person could make a noise like that without being touched.

Bucky’s expecting some sort of retaliation, but Clint seems fairly gone, blissed out on Bucky, maybe thinking about how many of those ways they can have each other over the next few days. He just eases himself into the bathtub, settling himself at the other end. It’s nice for them; the tap is on the wall, in the middle, so neither of them has to worry about being brained by a faucet. And Clint had been right, it _does_ fit two grown men and a pair of giant wings, though it takes a bit of wriggling and adjusting to fit comfortably. Clint makes a positively indecent moan when his wings submerge in the water. “No more showers for me, Buck. It’s baths from here until I die. Which might be right now. Can you die from feeling too good?”

“I’m wounded,” Bucky says dryly. “You feel better right now than–”

Clint’s spluttering objections before Bucky can even finish his question. Bucky just smiles, then leans his head back and closes his eyes. He knows. “I love you too, doll.” He can feel Clint smile back.

They lapse into quiet for long minutes, easily slipping back into the peace of life in Iowa. Bucky’s mind is pleasantly blank, his just open eyes barely registering the golden rectangle of sunlight on the bathroom floor, his body light and free in the strange, non-space that exists only in water. He’s close to being lulled to sleep by the steady beating of two hearts in his ears when he feels the unmistakable sensation of a hand sliding up the inside of his thigh.

His breath hitches; the hand hesitates. “You don’t have to stop, darlin’,” he says without moving. “I’d really rather you didn’t, actually.”

Again he’s sure Clint is smiling even though he can’t see. It’s like he can hear the muscles in his face stretching wide, or feel the happy vibrations in the air. He knows it makes no logical sense, but he’s long since given up on logic where Clint Barton is concerned. The two of them are connected, and that’s all–

A white hot shiver goes up his spine. Clint’s meandering fingers trace a line up his dick; light teasing touches that send a shudder through his whole body. “More,” he pleads, thrusting his hips; water splashes out of the tub and onto the floor.

Clint’s answering chuckle is a tease of its own. “Awfully demanding,” he says, pulling his hand away. Bucky feels lost for a moment, but it’s only a moment, because Clint himself surges forward, pressing his body against Bucky’s, capturing Bucky’s lips in a kiss that actually takes his breath away. Clint’s wings snap open behind him, flinging droplets of water in all directions, and Bucky’s already hard cock throbs almost painfully. Clint above him, flashing his wings in an almost mating dance sort of ritual, is nearly too much for him to take. He’s on a knife’s edge; if he doesn’t get himself under control he’ll come before Clint really even touches him.

“Well that was a nice relaxing bath for all of about fifty seconds,” Bucky says. He’s trying for droll but his gasping and strained voice gives away his current situation.

Clint laughs outright. “If you wanted to relax you should have stayed in bed, baby.”

Bucky can’t help but snort at this. “As if there was any relaxing going on in that bed.”

“We slept,” Clint says, trying to sound innocent. “A little.” Then he leans forward and whispers into Bucky’s ear. “This right now isn’t at all about sleeping,” in a voice that has never, ever known innocence. And as he speaks he takes hold of Bucky’s dick, gentle but firm, and oh, he’s got his own too, holding them both together in his long, calloused fingers.

For a minute, then two, Clint just waits, his uneven breathing heavy in Bucky’s ear, and Bucky realizes Clint’s fighting for control too. Good. No reason for him to suffer (oh the exquisite, perfect suffering) alone. When Clint’s hand finally–finally!–begins to move, he starts off slow, almost painfully slow. But it’s perfect–the warm water cradling them, the cool air on their damp skin, Clint’s wings spread above them like he’s trying to protect Bucky from some unknown predator. Or maybe _he’s_ the predator. If that’s the case, Bucky doesn’t mind being the prey.

But Clint isn’t looking at him like a hawk. Clint’s looking at him like he’s precious, to be handled with care, and it occurs to Bucky that never in his very long life has someone looked at him like he might break, like he should be protected.

It pierces something deep inside him, someplace raw and tender, and he doesn’t know how to respond. He runs his fingers through the feathers closest to him and Clint makes a sound something like a purr, and Bucky decides that will have to be enough.

Clint’s grip remains firm but he speeds up, and the sensation of Clint’s arousal against his own ignites things in his brain, roots him firmly in the moment. Clint’s head falls forward, forehead pushing onto Bucky’s shoulder, his body arching and wriggling to get closer and closer to Bucky. Bucky approves, but he’s too deep in the moment for words. He keeps stroking Clint’s feathers, the silky softness slipping through his fingers like water. He snakes his other hand up and around Clint’s back; he pulls him just that much closer and at the same time buries his fingers in the downy fluff where his wings sprout from his back. Clint keens, a wordless shriek, and Bucky’s momentarily shocked to feel pain on his shoulder where Clint’s teeth dig into his skin, and then they’re both coming, crying out, clinging to one another, and when they’re done shuddering and gasping Clint collapses on top of him. Somehow they make it work, cuddling together, a tangle of arms and legs and wings, and Bucky feels like he’s _home_.

“Sorry I bit you,” Clint mutters, his voice all muzzy and fuzzy and a little bit embarrassed. “I kinda lost myself in the moment.”

Bucky chuckles. “I’ll admit, I never expected that would do it for me, but this time it sure worked.” He tries looking down at his shoulder, then gives up when Clint won’t move out of the way. “I’m not bleedin’, am I?” he teases.

He feels Clint’s face heat up. “Oh god.”

Bucky laughs, warm and sweet, and kisses Clint’s head–the only place he can reach without moving. “I love you, darlin’.”

They laze in the water for a bit, utterly spent. Clint’s wings are tucked up against him, half in, half out of the water, and Bucky amuses himself splashing water on the feathers and watching it bead and roll off. “Are you a hawk or a duck?” he teases, to which Clint mutters incoherently. “What was that?” Bucky asks. “Couldn’t hear over your paddlin’ feet.”

Clint raises his head about half an inch from Bucky’s shoulder and mutters, slightly louder this time, “Can’t be a duck. Duck’s don’t have teeth.”

Bucky roars with laughter.

“This is not going to work if you can’t keep still!” Bucky punctuates each of the last three words with a teasing smack to the back of Clint’s head.

Clint pouts. “Hard to keep still with your fingers in my feathers,” he grumbles.

“Hard to clean your feathers without touching them,” Bucky retorts.

Clint is draped over one end of the tub, his head resting on his arms, his body limp and relaxed. Bucky’s straddling his thighs, running his fingers through the seemingly endless feathers splayed in front of him. He’s using another of Wanda’s gifts, a very mild soap–similar to what they use on animals caught in oil spills–with a bit of lavender oil added. No wonder Clint’s falling asleep. The repetition soothes even Bucky: lather up his hands, run his fingers through silky feathers while Clint makes little happy noises underneath him, pour water over the soapy feathers until it rinses clean, repeat with a new batch of feathers. “We won’t have to do this thorough a cleaning all the time,” he murmurs; he doesn’t really think Clint is listening, he’s just talking into the empty space. “Maybe once a month or so, or if you get particularly dirty. Generally just shaking them off will do, or a good preening by yours truly, or rinsing them off in the shower. But this feels nice, doesn’t it?”

Clint doesn’t answer, except to emit a low snore. Bucky chuckles. “You’re so articulate, darlin’. I’m so glad you’re mine.” The first bit is a tease, but the second is from the heart; he’s suddenly overcome with emotion so he buries his face in the now-clean feathers between Clint’s wings. “So glad,” he whispers, and he’s also glad Clint’s fallen asleep. He needs a moment; a moment to think about what’s coming and to remember where he’s been.

He’s had a long, strange, sometimes horrible life. Sometimes horrible, yes, but other times wonderful. His growing up is mostly hazy in his memories, but it’s a happy hazy. He remembers Becca and his ma and summer sun and wandering in the city with Stevie. He remembers pulling Stevie out of trouble more than once, and getting punched for the service. He remembers dating and dancing and fumbling in the dark.

Bucky remembers leaving New York, remembers training and fighting and far too much death. He remembers friends and blood and Stevie again and then–

Blackness.

Horror.

Shame.

Decades of atrocity.

He doesn’t know how someone could love what he became in those black years. He doesn’t know how what he became could possibly learn how to love.

But love is not earned, it is not deserved; love is a gift freely given.

And it is always a surprise.

“Hey you,” he murmurs into Clint’s ear, running the very tip of his finger along the edges of Clint’s primary feathers in a way that he’s learned always makes Clint shiver. He’s not disappointed. “Think maybe you’d be more comfortable sleeping in the bed? If you can help me get you up I’ll dry you off and carry you there.”

Clint makes one of those perfectly indecent sounds and Bucky wonders just how much sleep is going to be had once they get back to bed. He’s not betting on much.

“’mazing,” Clint mumbles. “Jus’ amazing,”

“Nah,” Bucky says. “That’s you.”

Clint’s quiet for a breath, and just as Bucky’s wondering if he fell back to sleep, Clint blurts out, “Both. Together we’re amazing.”

Wrapping his arms around Clint, he rests his cheek between Clint’s wings. “I can’t argue with that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Mine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LinkInThePark/pseuds/LinkInThePark) for the beta and to [Vex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vexbatch/pseuds/vexbatch) for the title. And to all my CFC pals for the shouts of encouragement!!
> 
> 💜


End file.
